


not where it begins

by threadoflife



Series: sherlock ficlets [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, M/M, POV Second Person, Pining Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 17:51:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8410888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: This isn’t where it begins. You’re not meant to be here after midnight staring at the windows of a house you don’t live in but in which he now lives. You’re not meant to be here—you don’t share nights anymore, neither spatially nor in the general sense.





	

This isn’t where it begins.

You’re not meant to be here after midnight staring at the windows of a house you don’t live in but in which he now lives. You’re not meant to be here—you don’t share nights anymore, neither spatially nor in the general sense.

This isn’t where it begins. Of course it isn’t. You know this.

But he’s impossible, and he makes you do impossible things: like imagining that this is where it _does_ begin, even though you know the opposite to be true.

How hateful, sentiment. Makes you indulge in illogical, irrational things. As much as he’s your conductor of light, he’s also navigating the abysses deep inside you, bringing you so close until you stop breathing. Your abysses, which are other people’s ordinary, boring realities.

_Sentiment._

Your scoff is merely a thin exhale that gradually leaves your mouth. You have your coat on, but you might as well be naked, that’s how exposed you feel. (Nobody is watching you.)

The windows are dark, the curtains drawn. You imagine he’s awake, staring up at the ceiling of the bedroom maybe. The idea of him there, of him in a t-shirt and pants underneath a blanket: so vivid. Bare feet. Palms touching the mattress. Ratty cotton moving against his pale flesh.

You stand out there on the street after midnight staring at the dark windows of his house, a house you don’t live in anymore, and the very thought of him is like a weight on your eyelids, bearing down gently, slowly, your lashes fluttering with the movement.

John Watson.

_John._

This isn’t where it begins. He’ll be married in a week.

It doesn’t change a thing. John is on the bridge of your ship, riding the waves, steering you into and away from your abysses. You hate it. You crave it. He pushes you right against this:

_Walk up there, ring the bell. Insistently. Constantly. He’s a light sleeper, he’ll be up in no time. He’ll stumble down the hallway. He’ll have a robe wrapped around him, perhaps, and if you do this right, maybe he’ll have your robe wrapped around him next year. That will make you fist your hands, and swallow, and begin pounding on the door until he’ll open._

_Then he’ll be there, in the doorway, staring up at you. He won’t know what to say._

_You won’t know what to say, either. Maybe you’ll say nothing. Maybe you’ll take a step closer, bring your hands to his face, and just kiss him._

_(As if that could ever solve anything.) (God, the nights you_ wasted _uselessly yearning for this.)_

_Maybe you’ll just stand there, wordlessly, and he’ll read your shadowed, tired face like he used to, and you’ll nod to let him know it’s genuine, it really is true, it’s always been true, he’s right because he’s always right, and then—_

and then what?

Another exhalation, this one tremulous, still thinner than before. Your eyes are no longer closed in delight, they’re denying sight—as if they could unsee the scene before you, make this any less real, John Watson not at Baker Street anymore, now living in a house that you do not live in. As if any of this could be different if you just didn’t see.

And then what, really? What would John do? What would he do if he found you lingering around his house after midnight, staring at his windows? Would he fuss about how wet you got, because you’ve been standing in the rain for over ten minutes? Would he care at all?

 _Oh, stop it,_ you snap irritably at yourself. _Of course he cares. Just because he doesn’t care the way you want him to doesn’t mean he doesn’t care at all. Stop catastrophising._

Sometimes you hate John Watson. You hate him with every fibre of your being, because he taught you that logic doesn’t always solve every case.

You know he cares. Of course he does; it’s _what_ he does.

That doesn’t make it any less painful, though it should.

You despise this. You despise, how now, with that dull, throbbing pressure in your chest, all you can wish for is the illogical, the irrational again: you want nothing more than to ring that bell, make him come out, have him stare at you until you have enough courage in your hands so you can put them on his face and just _kiss_ him.

And that’s why you hate John Watson, in these moments—because what could that solve, kissing him? What could that change? As if that could ever solve anything, or change anything.

John makes you believe that it could; and that hope is worse than anything.

This night isn’t where it begins. Probably it never will begin.

But still you’re here hoping that it could.


End file.
